


Of Hellfire & Fury

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cosmogony Zine, Gen, Ifrit gets his rage on, The Fall of Solheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: “No gods!” a voice shouted, its owner lost somewhere in the sea of faces. “Only kings!”It started as a trickle: more voices joining in with this taunt. Steadily it grew; became a downpour, a chorus of chanting and jeers.His ire knew no bounds. It burned within him so fiercely that the world shook beneath the feet of those who had gathered, but still the shouts came.These petty mortals in all their squabbling and squalling were nothing to the Infernian. Yet as he watched them unite as one — hundreds upon hundreds, frothing with malcontent — he felt something unfamiliar.For the first time in aeons, he felt fear.
Relationships: Ifrit/Shiva (Final Fantasy XV)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Of Hellfire & Fury

**Author's Note:**

> We just got the go-ahead to post our pieces from this year's wonderful Cosmogony Zine, a beautiful retelling of the lore of Final Fantasy XV from the early days, before the time of Lucis, to the present day after the return of the dawn. My era was _The Fall of Solheim_ , and I'm so privileged to finally be able to share it with everyone!

_ Time ebbs and flows; the great Wheel turns by the light of infinite stars. _

_ Birth, death, rebirth. _

_ The Cosmos shatters into formless Chaos; planets cry out in their dying throes, and from the ashes they are born anew. _

_ It is so that our World was made, and the Guardians with it. _

_ From the rocks and the mountains, the flesh of the Archaean was hewn; as the great oceans and lakes boiled, the Hydraean clawed Her way from their murky depths. _

_ The morning frost became the Glacian’s kiss; the eternal fires at the World’s core spewed forth the Infernian. _

_ A great Storm came, thundering over the lands, and from it emerged the Fulgurian to mete out justice from the heavens in His endless Wisdom. _

_ And with the breaking of the first day there came the Draconian, the Blade that would defend the World and honour the Dawn. _

_ Aeons passed, a thousand thousand years, and They mourned, for there were none with which to share the Light of Their boundless Love — until the Dawn breathed life into the first man. _

_ It is said that we were created in Their image; that the Six loved us above all. Thus, mankind and the Gods lived in harmony. _

—  _ Genesis of the Star, Vesper Analects _

*

Bricks of sun-baked mud, each lovingly placed, row upon row; thus, the first village of the first civilisation was built. From such humble origins came the world’s first people.

They paid tribute to the gods, and they were rewarded generously. The dirt in which they planted their crops was fertile; the water in the lakes and rivers gave them life. With the turning of the seasons came the great rains, and the frost cleansed the world, ready to be born anew.

It was Ifrit, most fickle of the Astrals, fieriest of temperament, who would be moved by these mortals in all their hardships — for he saw them as stewards of the planet, and Eos had captivated him so in all her fertile beauty. It was he who gifted them with Fire, and in doing so, changed the course of history forever.

They called themselves the People of the Sun. They honoured Ifrit, for with his most gracious gift he’d given them something even more precious: free will.

They flourished under the reign of their King of Fire. Villages became towns became a sprawling civilisation — soon Solheim stretched from coast to coast, across desert and lush vales, all the peoples of Eos united as one. With Ifrit’s Fire — ever-burning coals, said to have been brought from the very inferno from which Ifrit was born — they made most wondrous inventions, mechanical creations that could run indefinitely with a fuel source that never perished.

Ifrit exulted in his people, and they in him. Each day he looked upon his subjects as a shepherd over his flock, and in turn they honoured him with the fruits of their labours: great statues that appeared to move of their own will; vast gates that could open or close at the mere touch of a pressure pad; ships that took to the skies; even a labyrinth of epic proportions, in which the universe was bent to the will of its creators, and it so delighted Ifrit that he chose it for the seat of his throne.

Much as an apprentice must surpass her master, however, so too did the People of the Sun seek loftier heights. The sky was their only limit — and it seemed to them that even the heavens were not beyond their grasp.

Work began in earnest on a tower that would rival the tallest mountain, and stand as a testament to Solheim. All those of able body were drafted into its construction, with promises of the finest riches — and of a place in the new empire.

Ifrit grew suspicious; what was this matter of such great import, that they had not brought before him? His cunning was second only to his vanity of course, and they preyed upon it, telling him it would be a monument to his radiance. Flattered by such an answer, he gave them his blessing.

The others of the Hexatheon paid little heed to the ambitions of humanity — all but Shiva, who had come to love the mortals, and Ifrit in turn for the compassion he had shown them. For some years she had taken the guise of a raven-haired maiden and walked among the mortals, learning all they had to teach her of humankind. 

What she learned unsettled her. They spoke of the gods in vain: of Ifrit’s arrogance; of Bahamut’s inutility. They shared bawdy tales over their cups, boasting about who’d be the first to warm Shiva’s frozen skin; taunting each other with claims that they might prefer Leviathan’s slithering embrace.

There were whispers, too, in the darkest corners — talk of machines, of magiteknology, that could perform unimaginable feats: of a beast of mechanical workings, forged of Ifrit’s own Fire, that could cleave whole worlds in two.

When Shiva came to her lover with this knowledge, he waved off her suspicions.

“They adore me,” he said. “I am their king.”

“My love,” she said. “Please, take heed. We may not be as infallible as we believe. The mortals speak of—”

But he turned her away, his anger burning as brightly as the flames within him, his voice booming through his throne room so fiercely it made her flinch.

“Silence. I will hear no more of it. Leave me now.”

Yet even as Shiva did as she was bidden, she had planted the first seed of doubt within the King of Solheim — and that seed would grow to be the world’s downfall.

* * *

All was quiet in Solheim on the morning of the Fall. Bakers kneaded their loaves in preparation for the day; farmers tended their flocks. 

Beneath the ground, a great machine slumbered.

The tower was complete now, a looming monument of stone. Statues stood outside, not of the gods, but of men: self-proclaimed leaders among humankind. This was to be their command centre. The seat of their new empire.

They sent an envoy to Ifrit’s palace, to invite him to bear witness to what they called their  _ Gift to the Gods. _ He could see it from his palace, where it soared over the world. It seemed to him to pierce the very heavens, as though no other structure hewn by human hands — or indeed by those of the Astrals — could ever hope to rival it.

He basked in his own pride, and he set his sights upon his tower, venturing to the great city to see its splendour up close.

It took the better part of a day for him to reach the city, even with his considerable gait. He passed villages where the people led humble lives, far from the marvels of technology for which Solheim was known. These were meek and respectful, bowing low in his presence. They had nothing to offer a god-king such as him.

The tower only seemed to grow larger and more imposing the closer he came. By now, he could see that a crowd had gathered around it: hundreds or even more, by his count.

The people parted for him; whispers went about them, and he knew they spoke of him. Normally, it pleased him to know his name was on everyone’s tongue. Today, somehow, it filled him with unease.

He could see the statues now as he approached the foot of the tower, these depictions of men. At the entrance was a towering figure of a mortal in a crown, with a great cloak swept over his shoulder.

By the plinth of it, on a throne of gold, sat a  _ human. _

“What is the meaning of this?” Ifrit demanded.

The mortal, this would-be king, rose from his throne and placidly descended the steps at the foot of the tower.

“Today is a most joyous day,” he said. “The age of the gods is done! No longer will we cower in your shadow.”

This was no monument to their god. This was mutiny.

Rage simmered within Ifrit. Who were these ingrates to betray him so? Did they not see that they were nothing without him?

He turned in anger toward the gathered multitudes, his eyes afire. 

“You will bow before me,” he roared, his foot thundering down into the ground so hard that nearby buildings shook. “I am your king!”

The humans were silent: awestruck, afraid. They watched him warily where he stood among them, smoke curling against his skin. He was gratified by their terror, sated by it. These were his subjects. They pledged fealty only to  _ him. _

And yet now, in the shadow of this tower — this insult to their god-king — not one of them bowed.

“No gods!” a voice shouted, its owner lost somewhere in the sea of faces. “Only kings!”

It started as a trickle: more voices joining in with this taunt. Steadily it grew; became a downpour, a chorus of chanting and jeers.

His ire knew no bounds. It burned within him so fiercely that the world shook beneath the feet of those who had gathered, but still the shouts came.

These petty mortals in all their squabbling and squalling were nothing to the Infernian. Yet as he watched them unite as one — hundreds upon hundreds, frothing with malcontent — he felt something unfamiliar.

For the first time in aeons, he felt fear.

“You will burn,” he said, rounding on his betrayer. “You will know the most excruciating agony as you watch your people fall around you.”

“You sit upon your throne each day and command us to serve you,” this traitorous, so-called  _ king _ — declared. “You know nothing of us, nothing of our potential. You have underestimated us for the last time, Infernian.”

The king looked past him now, gaze trained on some point in the sky. When Ifrit followed his glance he found others staring toward the skies too, transfixed.

The air crackled. It seemed as though the very fabric of the world was being torn open, rending a doorway into another plane of existence. 

Through it, a turret appeared first, like the muzzle of some fell creature; as this  _ thing _ emerged, it landed on the ground with such force that it set the world quaking.

“We are the beginning,” the new king of the mortals says. “And we are your end.”

Static seemed to fill the air, like some portent of an incoming storm. As Ifrit looked on, this great weapon of the mortals’ making became shrouded in electricity, drawing energy from some unseen source.

Ifrit moved, but he wasn’t fast enough. With a beam of blinding light, the weapon fired; it struck him and sheared through the horn at the side of his head as though it were the gossamer of a butterfly’s wing.

Horror filled him, and wonder. The mortals had betrayed him, yes — but look what they had wrought with his Fire! 

_ Such a waste. _

“Enough,” he cried. “Your impudence will be your doom!”

The weapon began readying itself for another attack — with the echoing roar of a feral beast, he slammed his foot into the cobblestone street and sent a shockwave of fire pulsing through the crowd surrounding him.

Men, women, children — the flames tore through them indiscriminately. Yet in the wake of this destruction, the weapon went unharmed.

“It is over, Ifrit,” the king of men said.

Yet the Infernian was not alone. The skies groaned with thunder; a dread frost filled the air. The ground trembled underfoot; the lakes and rivers swelled.

“Go,” a voice commanded from the heavens. He knew it to be Bahamut; his brother-at-arms. “Leave now. We will dismantle this weapon.”

But Ifrit was not content to sit by. The mortals had spurned him, had betrayed him, had  _ humiliated _ him. They would be punished.

“No,” he said. “I will not rest until they pay for their insolence.”

The Astrals looked on in horror as he gave in to his rage. With clawing hands and the fires of Hell itself, Ifrit took his vengeance upon those who had once called him their king.

*

_ The Infernian set His fury upon the tower, this great affront to His honour; With eyes ablaze, he turned his anger upon it, mindless and heedless in the wake of His subjects’ betrayal. _

_ The peak of the tower burned in a fire that would rage for many days and nights; He tore at the ground, rending into it a mouth that swallowed the bottom of this monument of sacrilege. _

_ In the smouldering ruins, the Infernian saw what was left of the tower that had offended Him so, and decreed that it be left there for all eternity, to serve as warning for any who might dare forsake Him again. _

_ — The Tower’s Fall, Annals of Solheim IV _

*

In the blink of an eye, Solheim was turned to ruin; their hubris brought about their doom in a blaze of hellfire and fury. Few survived that cursed day. Those who did wrote of a battle between the gods — between Ifrit, who rued the mortals that had spurned him, and his kindred, charged with protecting the world. Even as the cities of man crumbled, the war endured, until at last the Infernian’s eternal fires were quenched.

When the dust had settled, and nothing remained but the ruins of the first civilisation of man, the world fell into slumber. She had wept long enough, great rains that flooded the lands for weeks on end. Wept, for her children, for the wounds carved into her very flesh by the weapons of god and mortal alike.

Humankind would rebuild itself; the people of Solheim — their misdeeds — would be lost to time along with the ashes of their ruined empire. The world would flourish under new kings. Cities would sprawl across the lands once more.

Though the people might forget, Eos would not.


End file.
